


5 alien aphrodisiacs Kirk regrets taking, and the one he just thinks was damn cool.

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-11
Updated: 2010-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alien aphrodisiacs have <i>got</i> to be awesome, right?  Jim decides to research the matter. In a practical, hands-on fashion, of course.  Beta'd by <a href="http://insanekht.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://insanekht.livejournal.com/">insanekht</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 alien aphrodisiacs Kirk regrets taking, and the one he just thinks was damn cool.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kink meme prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink_meme/7137.html?thread=5998817#t5998817). Contains irresponsible drug use..

**5.**

Academy legend had it that a few years back, a canny cadet had talked his way into the honour guard for a set of visiting alien dignitaries (the species involved and the purpose of the visit had been lost to the winds of time. Or, you know, the general suckiness and low-fidelity reproductive qualities of youthful gossip), and had thus been able to get inside the diplomatic suite and filch a quantity of the ambassador’s weird alien aphrodisiac powder. He’d tried it, carefully, just a little at first. And it had totally rocked his world. For several weeks, the stories said, this unnamed cadet had surfed a euphoric wave, made endless love with scores of gorgeous and ultimately well-pleased lovelies, been measurably more attractive to the opposite sex, and experienced a sudden unexpected surge in reasoning ability and memorial clarity which had enabled him to ace his end-of-year exams in every subject, even the notorious Klingonese practical.

That cadet’s name might have gotten lost amid all the retellings and embellishments, and who knew if the true story would bear any resemblance to the one currently doing the rounds, but it had served to inspire Jim Kirk, oh, yes. Okay, so pangalactic drug-enhanced sex research wasn’t likely to be on the official mission guidelines for the starship to which he one day hoped to be posted, but a guy had to have a hobby, right?

His first opportunity proved surprisingly easy to come by. Cadet Moreau (“I like you, James Kirk, I think you’re really going places. Why don’t you call me Marlena?”) introduced him to her linguistics tutor, a Denobulan with an interest in fast cars (which Jim shared) and a wife with an interest in Jim (which Jim also shared).

“What’s this?” Jim enquired, grabbing something at random off the table beside the bed onto which he’d been crowded, stalling for time while he wracked his brain for relevant information to help him assess whether he was more likely to be killed by the husband for screwing his wife or by the wife for declining to perform said screwing.

“Ah,” she said, taking the little bottle from him and stroking it in a faintly disturbing manner. She really had an extraordinarily wide smile which somehow put him in mind of a snake’s ability to consume things that didn’t _look_ like they’d fit. “This is a little something my dear husband and I have been tinkering with. It’s a naturally occurring pheromone, modified to work on a variety of species and to provoke… agreeable sensations.” Oh, yes, Jim knew that look.

“May I have some?” Jim squawked.

“But of course.” She set the bottle down once more. “Later.” She pounced.

“Um,” Jim managed, attempting to get her attention by patting her back and somehow ending up with a handful of excellent ass instead. Damn hands, couldn’t be trusted. He turned his head to avoid a kiss.

She pulled back enough to scan his face in some apparent concern. “What is it, dear?”

Jim swallowed. “Excuse me if this isn’t quite, uh, polite to ask, but wouldn’t your husband have something to say about, you know, you being all over me like this?”

Her eyes seemed to shift several shades towards green, though perhaps it was a trick of the light. “I don’t know. Shall we ask him?” And then, before he could stop her, she bellowed for her husband. Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and then in came the man himself.

There followed a very bizarre conversation that made Jim feel strangely as if he didn’t understand a word they said, even though their Standard was probably technically better than his. The upshot seemed to be that hubby did not mind at all. So Jim shrugged and—once their audience had departed unhurriedly once more—gave in to his altruistic desire to achieve better relations with Denobula.

He stumbled away, dazed and bruised (totally in a good way) a couple of hours later, and headed to the apartment of one Leonard McCoy, ship’s surgeon to be. Their friendship had now progressed to the point—despite McCoy’s considerable resistance—where they hung out at least a couple times a week. Recently, McCoy had even graced Jim with his keycode (“So you’ll stop waking me and half the neighbourhood banging on my door at all hours as if you’ve forgotten there’s such a thing as a damn comm button”). So Jim let himself in to sprawl on the doc’s couch. Jim Kirk liked a bit of reckless stupidity now and then (that’s how he’d been recruited to join Starfleet, after all, and _that_ was paying off so far in snazzy uniforms and new teachers to piss off and classes he actually had to stay _awake_ for if he wanted to pass, not to mention being surrounded by people who not only knew what he meant when he used big words but would actually call him on his bullshit if he tried to argue, for instance, that ontogeny _totally_ recapitulates phylogeny and shit), but there was reckless stupidity and then there was reckless stupidity.

Any Vulcan would agree: if you were going to go tripping on strange alien drugs, it was only logical to do it on your doctor friend’s couch so you could be properly grumped over and hypo’d back to health in case of disaster.

Quite pleased with his forethought, Jim sampled the stuff in the bottle and settled more comfortably into the cushions. A pleasant rush of warmth was seizing him already. And, yes, Sir Jim was showing an interest. This was going to be awe—

Jim woke to a bright light in his eye and an eyelid that wouldn’t close because someone’s finger was on it. He voiced a complaint. Sounded like French, but he felt sure it made sense anyway. You know, if you spoke French. Did Jim speak French? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps McCoy could tell him? McCoy, was that a French name?

“Jesus, kid, what did you take?”  
 _  
“Tout ça,”_ Jim offered helpfully, trying to bat away the hands that were now poking around under his jaw, behind his ears, and in the region of his currently not terribly happy trail. He was weak and dizzy and his face felt weird.

“Lie still, damn you.”

For some reason—perhaps pure contrariness, or a desire to see the too-capable bastard wrong-footed for once?—Jim’s body complied with this instruction, and the examination proceeded apace to its entirely unsurprising conclusion.

“Ow!” Jim complained, by rote, when the hypospray impacted the side of his neck. He knew from too fucking much personal experience that these things weren’t supposed to hurt, but somehow, with this particular practitioner of the noble healing arts they always, always did. If Jim didn’t know better, he might think the guy was incompetent. But he did know better. Or that McCoy didn’t like him. But Jim knew better than that, too.

“This the stuff?”

A familiar bottle was waved before Jim’s eyes. Jim detected signs of imminent confiscation. “That? No, that’s just some perfume I picked up… for a lady friend. You know.”

“Perfume, huh?” Leonard McCoy raised an eyebrow. Then he opened the bottle. “In an unsealed, unlabelled, generic bottle, without a fancy box all tied up with ribbon?” He gave it a very cautious sniff, then twisted the top back on in a hurry. “I’ll do you a favour,” he said, pocketing it, “and not report you for about a dozen violations of the Starfleet code. But it’ll cost you.”

He had a regular Glare of Doom, this dude. Jim faced it bravely with a smile. “Oh, yeah? Credits, booze, blowjobs, something like that?”

“We’ll see,” said McCoy, getting to his feet. He looked dizzyingly tall from Jim’s vantage point lying on the couch, so he guessed that the effects of alien drug and/or hypo hadn’t worn off entirely just yet. “Now, you’re going to lie there and get at least four hours’ rest, or I’m gonna put you in the hospital, we clear?”

Jim was inspired to poke out his tongue. Which was a mistake, because McCoy pounced on it and began muttering critically about its colour. Then there was another hypo, and then there was nothing at all.

**4.**

The second time Jim was able to pilfer a little bit of something sex-enhancing from a passing alien, it made him irresistible to women. This turned out not to be as pleasant as it sounds. It caused a whole class to fail an exam because no one could concentrate on the exam paper, everyone being occupied either trying to molest Jim in various weird and wonderful ways (hair pulling was involved, as was uniform deconstruction, spine licking, and the french kissing of ears), trying to avoid being molested, or trying to escape being trampled in the rush to molest Jim.

He doesn’t like to talk about that particular week of his second year at the Academy. Nor does anyone else, except Bones, and you do _not_ want to get him started on the subject.

**3.**

The third time, he’s misusing the perks of his new-found status as captain of the _Enterprise_ and he feels guilty about that from the outset. Well, a little guilty, anyway. They’ve been ferrying supplies out to New Vulcan, which would be tedious except that Jim’s had the brilliant idea of daring his crew to knock a few minutes off the run each time. Everybody’s chipping in: Scotty’s whole team’s enthusiastically coaxing speed out of the engines by day and dreaming up new and improved mechanical cargo loaders/unloaders by night; Uhura’s got her little flock of underlings trained to handle all those pesky permission requests (permission to leave Spacedock, permission to pass through Andorian space, permission to assume orbit of New Vulcan, permission to beam down to the colony, and probably a gazillion others Jim really doesn’t want to hear about) in a nice rapid efficient manner that would please any Vulcan (though of course it would be unVulcan to admit as much); Medical’s figured out a production line approach to inoculating those crewmen who’ll be beaming down with all the pharmaceutical goodness they’ll need to deal well with the heat; hell, even Maintenance is making a supreme effort to sweep floors and replace lighting strips at the optimum times for not disturbing anyone’s work.

It all leaves Jim with nothing much to do. He’s bored, very bored, when they finally arrive at NV for the third time. So he gets himself beamed down. Accepts an offer of a tour around their science facility, which is pretty drab on the outside (prefabricated modular housing units have the same depressing look of attempted-cheeriness about them all across the galaxy) but a total mad scientist’s wet dream inside. They’re working on a project they won’t tell him much about, but it’s clear to him that it’s part of the re-population efforts and that it’s intended to… encourage… breeding by surviving Vulcans who might be sexually inexperienced or otherwise dubious about the whole endeavour. There’s something they’re not telling him, but Jim senses that ninety-nine percent of the time around Vulcans anyway. Well, except Spock. Then it’s only about ten percent and he suspects that usually what Spock’s hiding is his amusement and/or annoyance at Jim’s ‘human illogic’ and how it often, to Spock’s un-acknowledgeable aggravation, leads him to the correct answer.

He steals a drop, that’s all, and he does it right under their noses, “accidentally” gets some on his finger, licks it off, ignores twenty-five raised eyebrows. No one says anything except that his action may have been unwise. He feels no ill effects, though. In fact, he feels no effects of any kind.

Until he gets out into the hot New Vulcan sunshine and every Vulcan in sight makes a slow, sedate, measured, but entirely predatory beeline for him. Jim gulps. It was bad enough being irresistible to human women. Now he’s apparently irresistible to super-strong Vulcans. Of all ages. And both sexes.

“Kirk to _Enterprise_. Beam me up, will you? And make it fast?”

Jim has to duck the reaching arms of a confused-looking Spock in the corridors in order to make it to the security of his own cabin.

On the whole, he feels cheated. If you’re going to go through this sort of thing, there ought to be at least a bit of a buzz in it for you. Also, he’d been waiting at least a _month_ , man, for Spock to make a move, and now he had it wouldn’t be right for Jim to take advantage because it was all the drug’s doing. Right? Perhaps, next time, he should try to find out what things did before he put them in his body.

Yeah. _Right_.

**2.**

“You’ll like this,” said the strangely beautiful Tau Sigma half-goddess, jiggling four of her breasts and two of her arms at him. “It will make you…” She took a deep, deep breath and sighed it out through her upper nose. “T’will make you feel as if you are floating, high above, and yet also grounded, splayed open on the earth… It is a profoundly…. sensual… awakening…” She blinked her fourteen eyelids in sequence. The lights shimmered gloriously off her scale-studded body as she shuddered in remembered ecstasy. “Like minds may come to you, wishing to join their bodies with yours in an ethereal explosion of pleasure, but even if you remain solitary the experience will be most… piquant. This is our gift to you, Captain Kirk.”

Jim couldn’t remember any part of Diplomacy 101 which had advised him to risk causing offence by refusing gifts just because they conflicted with his vague notions about the inadvisability of getting stoned on alien shit he knew nothing about.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the pipe and the pouch of leaves. “Are you pretty sure this won’t cause any harm to humans?”

She looked slightly more awake after that, and got out her weird alien tricorder which beeped at him and wafted bright turquoise vapour that smelled uncannily like strawberries. “Should be fine,” she said. “Here, let me show you how to light the pipe, and then perhaps we may share a bowl…”

By the time Jim got back to the ship, he had one hell of a headache. And the weird conviction he could sense how people around him were feeling without even looking their way. Ensign Toriff was moping about something. Scotty, who was humming under his breath while he polished the transporter console with a bit of old rag he _really_ should not have had tucked into the waistband of his uniform pants until a minute ago, was feeling a warm, happy burst of nostalgia for something. Someone behind that wall over there was having a bit of private time with his or her genitals, to judge by the feelings he sensed.

Jim considered reporting to sickbay, but figured he’d be a) lectured and b) told he was imagining it anyway, so instead he took himself off to his quarters and put himself to bed.

He woke up at 2030 hours when his door chimed.

 _Right. Spock. Chess._ He reached for his pants, climbed in, zipped up, answered the door.

Just for a second, Spock’s gaze roamed his naked chest. And that was when Jim remembered about the godly Tau Sigma dope and the sudden freakish empathy and such, because he looked at Spock and he felt… desire, guilt, confusion, affection, and a dozen other things all intermixed and shifting, changing, as their owner did his best to bury them down deep.

“Spock,” Jim blurted, “I can sense what you’re feeling. You and everyone else, that is.”

Guilt, worry, sympathy, confusion, guilt, guilt, guilt.

Spock’s eyebrow rose. “Something happened on the planet below.”

“Yes.”

A hand seized Jim’s upper arm in a vice-like grip, which prompted even more confused feelings of pleasure and wanting and guilt, promptly tamped down but still there.

“Come. You must have medical attention. You have no appreciable telepathic ability on an ordinary day; you may be burning up irreplaceable cerebral resources.”

“You mean my brain may melt?”

Confusion amusementpleasurepainfear.

Jim was hauled off to sickbay without even an opportunity to put on his slippers. Doctors McCoy (worry, anger, affection, grudging respect) and M’Benga (unsurprised, academic interest, hungry) promptly tag-teamed him with hypos, while Spock stood anxiously by.

Oh, well. At least he’d not offended the goddess.

**1.**

“You’re sure this is a good idea?”

Bones rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I think you need your hearing checked. I _said_ it wouldn’t _kill_ you. I didn’t tell you to buy it, and I ain’t telling you to drink it.”

Jim appreciated the difference, he really did. He wasn’t a complete dumbass. Usually. “Good enough for me. Bottoms up.” He drained the glass of curiously blue and sparkly Davosian wine.

All the colour dropped out of the world.

Bones was glaring at him and mumbling uncomplimentary things. But it couldn’t be Bones, he looked too real to be Bones, and yet Jim’s gaze wouldn’t lock onto him as if he wasn’t really there. And the vase of flowers in the corner, why couldn’t he count the stems? He felt sure there were six shadows on the walls, but every time he counted the blooms he got to a different number that wasn’t six.

“I’m dreaming,” Jim realised.

“Like hell you are,” said dream-Bones, continuing to pick unhappily at the local tastes-like-chicken fried reptile dish.

Jim ignored him. “Don’t get these kinds of dreams very often, all lucid and shit. Gotta make the most of them. I wonder when the girls get here? Or is it a man-sex dream?” He peered at Bones, who was still in monochrome and who still wouldn’t hold still. Bones made a gesture that probably didn’t indicate his being up for a bit of super-sexy hands-on male bonding. Oh, well, plenty more fish in the—Fish. There weren’t any fish on this planet. How did a biosphere evolve without fish? Was the sea here just empty, then, or was it full of mammals or alligators or something?

Jim flopped back onto the big hotel bed and gazed at dream-Bones, since the dancing girls he was hoping for hadn’t seen fit to arrive yet. “Hiya, Bones. I think about kissing you sometimes. And Spock. I think about you kissing Spock. That’s hot. Uhura’s hot. Sulu’s hot. This is a stupid dream, there’s no _action_. I wish Spock were here, he’s hot, but he’s from Vulcan so you expect that. They have higher mean body temperatures, you know. Bones knows that, but you’re a dream so perhaps you don’t? And it’s my dream so I get to be the smartest one in it, right? I bet if Spock showed up right now I could beat him at dream chess. I like chess. Do you like chess, oh grumbly dream-Bones?”

Dream-Bones was fondling his hypospray. Jim figured that should probably mean something, because this was a dream and that was a phallic object, right? But could you, theoretically, ever possibly interpret a dream correctly while you were still experiencing it? Or was it better not to try? He’d have to look it up in Freud. Except that you weren’t supposed to be able to read in dreams, right? Which was odd, because not only did he know what the padd in front of him said, but he was conscious of being able to focus on and read it. It was in colour, too, a little island of colour in a black and white world. No, a blot of colour, gradually spreading outwards like spilled ink, feathering out to taint the white things, and the grey things, and the black things with red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and—

“Haha, Bones, I can sing a rainbow!”

“That’s nice, Jim. Are you aware that you’re no longer filtering which thoughts make it to your mouth?”

“Bet you have just the right hypo for that, huh? Always prepared, that’s ma Bonsey. Were you ever a Boy Scout, Bonesybones?”

“No, not me, Jim. You?”

“Briefly. Got kicked out, for some reason. Probably stupid. Can’t remember. Always wanted to be a Girl Scout, anyway, they had better uniforms. Spock looks nice in uniform, don’t you think? He’d make a truly _excellent_ Girl Scout.”

“You talk about him an awful lot for someone who claims not to like him.”

“When did I ever say that—”

“Let me count the ways—”

“Oh, that. Right. That was a long time ago. Don’ think I’ve called him a bastard this _year_ , Bones, not once. I like his ears.” The room had almost finished colouring itself back in, though everything was still a bit pale, as if it had been washed over with thin water-colours. Or Paint With Water, remember that, Bones?

Bones was playing with his tricorder. Jim tried to smile winningly at him but could not immediately remember how. “You scanning me, Bonesy? You like what you see?”

“I’m not seeing any aphrodisiac-like effects at all, though the literature’s clear that this stuff _does_ work on the locals. All it’s done to you is make you stupid, if you ask me.”

Jim found this inordinately funny and could not quite establish why.

Spock’s sigh when they beamed up was too loud for anyone present to miss. Jim waved a cheery hello before allowing himself to be half dragged, half carried to sickbay.

He had a feeling he was going to be regretting this in the morning. As soon as the past hour’s events began to make enough sense to be embarrassed over.

**+1.**

The Klingons don’t give him a choice. They’re in the mood for some sport, he’s being a good Starfleet _Ha’DIbaH_ and refusing to fight, so they jab him with something. Jim’s vision goes subtly white at the edges. He looks from the rest of the landing party, Spock among them, chained up and under guard in the corner, to the six Klingons facing him. It suddenly seems very important to kill them all lest they defile Spock, the bastards.

“So,” he says sweetly, “do I get a weapon?”

Someone tosses a bat’leth at him, and Jim catches it as easily as he would have done in hand-to-hand class in a different gravity long ago. He’s horny, insanely horny all of a sudden, but somehow this doesn’t seem at all incompatible with his urgent desire to smash heads. The Klingon commander steps forward, bows mockingly, raises his weapon. Jim charges.

Somehow, he doesn’t get killed, though he’s not sure he’d have minded if he had. Somehow, in fact, he manages to free his guys to even up this fight a little. He’s vaguely aware, through the haze of bloodlust, of Uhura insulting a Klingon delicately in his own dialect, doing a good enough job, in fact, that she’s able to duck the resultant punch, which goes through a control panel into live wires instead. She hits him over the back of the head with a handy stool for good measure. Jim likes that. He hopes he won’t have to fight her for Spock.

It’s over before he’s quite ready for it to be, and somehow they’re back on the ship, and Spock’s refusing to be carried, and it’s all very confusing.

“You,” he growls, “my quarters, now.”

Spock bows his head, acquiescence, no more. They walk. Jim knocks down a crewman who looks the wrong way at Spock. It’s only when Jim has finished sealing them snugly in his quarters that he realises the doctor has followed them in and is standing there, hands on hips, giving Jim that look that means pain.

“Do I have to fight you for him too, _Doctor?”_

Bones sighs. “Just thought you might like some help to clear the Klingon aphrodisiac out of your system. But if you prefer to attempt a seduction in your present condition, I sure as hell ain’t gonna get in your way.”

Having established that the doctor is not a rival for Spock’s affections, Jim turns back to Spock. Who raises an eyebrow, and then a hand. Jim barely feels the touch on his neck before he’s sinking into black.

Jim wakes to a soft bed and a warm body beside him. He blinks a few times, feeling thick-headed and bleary. “Spock?”

“Indeed. Have you quite recovered your faculties, Captain?”

“Oh, God. Klingons. Are you all right, are you hurt, is everybody—?”

“All is well, Jim.”

He notices something significant. “You’re in bed with me. Why are you in bed with me?” Not that he’s complaining, mind.

“My presence appeared to calm you. Under the influence of the foreign substance, you appeared to regard me as your mate.”

Jim attempts to hide his face in the pillow, and isn’t terribly successful owing to a certain puny human need to breathe now and then.

“Are you operating under the misapprehension that I would object to this state of affairs?”

Jim blinks. “Um, no?”

Spock’s mouth twitches, just a little, as if he wants to smile and pat Jim on the head. Jim kisses his nose.

“Wanna fuck?” You can’t be too subtle with Spock, after all, he’ll misinterpret if he possibly can. Jim’s begun to think he does it on purpose sometimes.

Spock eyes him for several long moments, completely still, not even breathing. Then he says, softly, “I would not be averse to that course of action. With one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You must shower, Jim. You smell like Klingon blood.”

Jim grins. That’s a much better condition for sex than many he’s been slapped with before (when hell freezes over, if you prove you really want me by keeping your hands off every other woman for the next week, only if I top, only if you’re the last man on earth and I somehow missed the memo), and it will require him to delay gratification (and gratification-ing—he so wants to make Spock come a whole lot, preferably with screaming and clawing-of-backs) only briefly.

 _Klingons did their bit to get me laid_ , Jim thinks as he scrubs pinkish stains from his skin. _Huh. And I met an alien aphrodisiac that even sorta kinda just about did the trick._ He dries off and pads naked back into his bedroom, to find Spock propped up on one elbow watching him from the bed. There’s something insanely sexy about a barefoot Spock, even when the rest of him’s as primly covered as usual.

Jim Kirk, pan-galactic sex researcher (participant observation method) reporting for duty…

***END***

  



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